The Trials of the Decidedly Sane
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: In which Sharp decides to befriend Elmer and Bernard disapproves entirely. Takes place shortly after "Woes of the Eternally Bored." Two or three shot. Gwen/Bernard.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: Hi, this is just a quick two shot I've been thinking about, taking place about 3 months after the end of "Woes of the Eternally Bored." Please read and PLEASE review; I'd love to hear your thoughts!_

Gwendolyn Sharp was never the sort to know when to throw in the towel.

"Bernard," she said, lying across our bed with her legs dangling, nibbling at a pencil as she worked a crossword puzzle, "What's Elmer's number?"

I paused, looking up from the bills I'd been attempting to pay.

"What?"

"Elmer's number," she repeated. "Y'know—little guy, cleans things, always calls you 'Mr. Bernard, sir'…"

"I am aware of who Elmer is, thank you," I replied, going back to the bills.

"Good. Then you can be a dear and give me his phone number."

I snorted.

"That's not happening."

She set down her puzzle, scooting closer to where I sat on the bed.

"Why not? C'mon, Bernard; this is important."

"Because," I told her, quickly adding a column of figures on the side of the paper, "substandard as his cleaning may be, he's done nothing to deserve you having his number. And anyway," as she opened her mouth to make an undoubtedly asinine retort, "I don't have it."

"What do you mean, you don't have it? Bernard, you mean to tell me he's cleaned your apartment for _years_ and you never saw fit to ask his number?"

I set the bills aside with a sigh; there was no point in trying to be productive when Gwendolyn Sharp was on the prowl.

"Why, pray, would I want Elmer's number?"

"I don't know—just in case! What if there was an emergency and-?"

"Ah, yes: an emergency. I can see it now: Elmer, with his mop and bucket, sweeping in to save the day."

Sharp, much as she tried, couldn't quite stifle a laugh; chucking a pillow at me, she said:

"You're impossible. Look, the point is, I want to draw Elmer out; he seems lonely to me. And I'd like to call him and ask him over for dinner."

Had I been holding something, I undoubtedly would have dropped it; fortunately, I was empty-handed, so my possessions were spared.

"Sharp, I'm going to cling to my last shred of hope for your sanity and say that you're joking."

She made a face.

"Look, Bernard, just because _you're_ an anti-social grouch doesn't mean we all are. _Some_ people like to make friends."

"Sharp, you have an uncanny genius for the worst possible schemes."

But the bizarre minx only laughed and kissed the top of my head, sweeping up to change her sweater.

"Scoff all you want, Bernard. It'll happen. Remember: I once made friends with _you._ Everything else is just child's play."

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An hour later, she was back, grinning all over her impossible face. Throwing herself onto the bed, she announced, clearly under the delusion that I'd asked:

"Elmer's coming to dinner tomorrow for six."

I made an effort to keep my face impassive; struggling with the habitual irritation at Sharp's nosiness was a grudging admiration. Stalker that she was, no one could deny that she wasn't good at it.

Not satisfied with my silence, my wife prompted:

"Well? What do you think? C'mon; I know you have something snarky to say."

She was, for once, correct.

"Well, I doubt Elmer had much choice in the matter."

She laughed.

"Oh, don't be a grouch. He's going to like it—and so are you. You're practically old friends."

"Sharp, he cleaned my floors once a week for twenty dollars an hour. I wouldn't run away with any cozy ideas about friendship."

But the chit only looked smug and kissed me quickly on the mouth.

"We'll see."

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For the rest of the day Sharp was on one of her highs; she nearly danced around the kitchen as she made dinner, and more than once I had to remind her to be careful of the hot stove.

Often, dealing with Gwendolyn was like dealing with an exhuberant seven year old.

"Bernard," she said, finally putting the lasagna in the oven, "Bernard, c'mere for a moment."

I approached warily; who knew what harebrained schemes the Sharp chit was cooking up.

"Yes?"

But she only grinned and told me to stay still, pulling my head down to kiss a soft, cool line from my ear to my chin. I could suddenly only hear the thunder of my pulse, particularly when Gwendolyn slipped her hand into my slacks...

"Sharp, wh-what are you…?"

"Sh," she said, pulling back to grin at me. "I'm giving you a little present."

"Wh-what…?"

"You talk too much," murmured Gwendolyn, now working at my belt. It came off with surprising ease, and the minx soon moved to my zipper and then my boxers…"

"Sharp," I said, my voice hoarse, "I—I can't…it'd be easier on the—on the sofa…"

Sharp chuckled; the sound vibrated throughout my body.

"Don't worry," she murmured, getting on her knees. "You won't have to do a thing."

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A few minutes later, I was leaning against the cabinets, very drowsy and extremely content; Sharp stood up on tiptoe to kiss what I'm sure must have been a goofy, ridiculous smile.

"You look pleased," she said, lightly wiping at her mouth. I nodded.

"Mmmm."

She laughed.

"Wow—I should have given you a blow job a long time ago. C'mon, Bernard; let's get you on the sofa. You look like you need a nap. I'll wake you up for dinner, alright?"

I nodded, allowing her to lead me to the couch.

"Gwen?" I murmured, lying on the sofa, half asleep already. She stopped.

"Yeah?"

I wrenched my eyes open, blinking at her.

"Thanks. It—it was nice."

Sharp smiled: one of her 1000 watt, sunshiny smiles. She bent to kiss me.

"No problem, Bernard. It was my pleasure."

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"Bernard?"

Someone with soft, cool fingers was stroking my hair away from my forehead; I sighed, leaning into their hand.

"Mmmm…"

"Bernard," said the voice again, and it almost sounded like Sharp's, "Bernard, wake up. C'mon, dinner's ready."

It was Sharp. Opening my eyes, I saw that I was correct; there she was, standing over me with a little grin on her face as she stroked my hair. I straightened my glasses.

"Hello, Sharp."

"Hey, there," she said, as I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. "C'mon, get up; I've got dinner ready and all."

Accordingly, I followed her, watching as she set a plate of what looked like surprisingly palatable lasagna in front of me.

"Well, Sharp, you've outdone yourself. This actually looks rather eatable."

She stuck out her tongue; Sharp was nothing if not puerile.

"Well, Bernard, you know how it is; I give great blow jobs and I cook mediocre dinners. You can't have everything. These are the trade offs we make."

I opened my mouth to retort but then closed it; after all, there was no denying that the Sharp female had a decided aptitude for oral sex.

(I shifted in my seat at the thought.)

"Now," says Sharp, settling into the chair across from me with her own plate, "what do you think we should have for tomorrow? Or should we order something? I mean, cooking's not really my specialty…"

"One of the most sensible things you've ever said," I remarked, thinking privately that the lasagna was actually quite good. Sharp ignored me.

"But ordering would be so expensive…besides, I think he's bringing his wife and children…"

I dropped my fork.

"Sharp, how many people are there going to be at this dinner?"

She wrinkled her nose, considering it; I awaited her reply with the resignation of a man waiting for death.

"Oh…let's see, counting you and I, there should be seven people: you, me, Elmer, Mrs. Elmer, and their three girls."

Oh, for God's sake: seven people, indeed. This was beyond even Sharp's usual level of delusion.

"Sharp, we don't have seven chairs."

This, apparently, was a new consideration for her; pursing her lips, she leant back in her chair, a forkful of lasagna still halfway to her mouth.

"Hmmm…well, we'll have to get more, I guess."

"Or you could just sit in my lap," I said wryly. "That's a chair saved right there.

Gwendolyn smirked.

"I could, but I don't think you'd be able to contain yourself."

And then, cutting off my retort:

"Oh! I know—Bernard, it's so simple. We'll just pull the sofa up to the table!"

Then, seeing my face:

"You're right—you're right. But we _could_ move the two chairs here to the living room—that with the sofa and the armchair makes seven seats. It'll be fun: a nice, informal get together."

I sighed, deciding it would be wisest to wash my hands of the whole, absurd affair. Gwendolyn, for reasons best known to her only, had taken it into her head to befriend poor Elmer; there was little in the way of man or beast that could save Elmer now.

What would be, would be.

 _AN: Next chapter soon to come!_


	2. Chapter 2

By 5:30 the next day, everything was ready. Gwendolyn had, after some agonizing on her part and an equal amount of sarcasm on mine, decided to order Chinese takeout; she had also forsaken her usual shirt and jeans for a short-sleeved blue dress that was tight at the waist and then flared outwards. (She'd made a corresponding effort to get me to change as well, but I had resisted. It was one thing to have Elmer over for dinner; it was quite another ro _dress up_ for the man. It might make him feel important.)

The plates were in a pile on the counter; the chairs had been duly dragged into the living room.

At a quarter to six, Sharp paused in her pacing and took me by the lapels of my blazer.

"Bernard, I swear to God—be nice to these people. Don't snark them too badly, for heaven's sake. It's alright with me; I'm used to it. Poor Elmer is probably not; he practically cowers when you look at him. Be. Nice."

I snorted; I seemed to remember a time when Elmer was all too willing to give his opinion on my personality and (admittedly deplorable, at the time) sex life…

Gwendolyn gave me a stern look.

"Be. Nice."

At this juncture, the doorbell rang, and I was at once freed from her surprisingly keen grasp as she ran down the hall to open the door.

"Coming!"

Sighing, I followed, not even bothering to attempt a smile; it was going to be a long evening.

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Elmer, standing at the doorway, looked at first very much as he always did: there was the thin mustache, the stooped shoulders, the baseball cat pulled low over his eyes. All that was missing, really, was the huge contraption he used to push in front of him.

Closer inspection, however, showed the difference. To begin, he was not alone, as he always was in earlier days; beside him was a large woman with hair an ungodly shade of red and three little girls, all of whom had inherited their father's smallness and their mother's awful hair. There was also the matter of the tattered windbreaker which had constituted his uniform; he had forsaken it for a rather shabby, nondescript buttondown and slacks. We looked at each other for a moment; he nodded deferentially.

"Mr. Bernard, sir."

"Elmer."

Breaking the routine, Gwendolyn said lightly:

"Hullo, Elmer! Please come in! And you are…"

"Daphne," said the large wife, in a loud, carrying voice. "Are you Miss Gwendolyn?"

"Oh—just Gwendolyn, please!" my wife replied, ushering the wife and the three brats through the hall and into the living room. I followed, wondering when the offspring went to bed.

"Miss Gwendolyn, miss," said Elmer, who apparently would not be broken of the subservience of a lifetime so easy as that, "these are my daughters: Eleanor, Clara, and Samantha."

None of the daughters, thank God, seemed to have inherited their mother's volume; they all hung back, just behind their mother, looking up at Gwendolyn and I with wide, wondering eyes.

"Oh, they're lovely!" said Sharp, obviously determined to make the evening pleasant one. (I could have told her it was a lost cause.) "Here—please sit down. Um…I…I'll go serve everyone. Bernard, can you help me?"

I could tell from the look she was giving me that I didn't have much of a choice.

"Of course, darling."

At the endearment, Gwendolyn turned and looked at me sharply.

"Thanks."

In the kitchen, I began spooning Lo Mein onto seven plates and mumbled:

"Well, they seem fascinating company, Gwendolyn. You really spotted the diamond in the rough."

She pinched my arm.

"Hush—they might hear. And I think they're lovely; did you see those little girls?

I sighed.

"Unfortunately. It's not as if I could help it; there were three of them."

She laughed, taking the spoon out of my hand and pulling my face down to kiss me tenderly on the mouth. I sighed, my hands finding her waist; pulling away, she murmured:

"You can snark all you want, but I think deep down you're kind of a softie with kids, Uncle Bernard."

The minx was really outdoing herself in terms of willful self deception; I tried to muster an incredulous snort as I told her as much. But she, absurd as ever, only smiled.

"Yes, I know, I know; you're an incorrigible misanthrope. Now go on and give these plates to Elmer and his wife; I'll fix up the rest."

And she sent me on my way before I could so much as argue.

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When, at length, Sharp (with my reluctant help) had served everyone, she takes an uneasy seat on the arm of the sofa and, placing her hand lightly on my knee (I occupied the seat at the end of the sofa), started to Make Conversation.

"So, Elmer…are you…are you still cleaning?"

The little man hastened to bob his head.

"Oh, yes, Miss Gwendolyn, miss; I've just started cleaning different places, Miss. Mr. Megamind, sir is very generous."

Gwendolyn choked slightly on her water; I meanwhile, set down my fork, looking at Elmer with the closest thing to interest I'd ever felt toward him.

"You clean for Megamind?"

"Yup, every Tuesday," says his wife, looking at her husband with a revolting pride. "Course, it's only a seasonal gig till the autumn, but he's really impressed with my Elm."

In recognition of this praise from his better half, Elmer ducked his head. I sat there, processing it all, wondering which of my million questions could be asked with as little appearance of being interested as possible.

"If you would like, Mr. Bernard, sir," said the little man, turning towards me and addressing my torso. "I could come and clean for you again."

"Oh—Elmer, that's not why I asked you here!" cried Gwen, horrified at the thought. "No, I-I was hoping to get to know you better."

Elmer set down his fork, obviously astonished at the very idea.

"There is not much to know, Miss Gwendolyn, miss."

"Miss Gwendolyn,miss, is there a bathroom here?"

One of the three girls (I had no idea which) turned to Sharp with all their father's meek deference. Gwendolyn tried to smile.

"Of course, sweetheart; c'mere, let me show you."

And she got up, the girl trailing behind her (oblivious to Sharp's efforts to walk alongside her), leaving me to entertain the guests. I made sure to keep my eyes on the glass.

"So, Elmer," I said, causing him to drop his fork as he hastened to give a Heep-like nod. "You work for Megamind."

"Yes, Mr. Bernard, sir."

"Mm." I shrugged a shoulder as if the news was only mildly interesting. "Well, how is it? Do you ever see him at work?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Bernard, sir; you see, sir…"

And the remaining hour of their visit passed tolerably enough.

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When they were gone, I took the dishes to the sink, wondering idly what foolishness Gwendolyn was perpetuating now. She was suspiciously quiet in doing it, whatever it was; usually, Gwendolyn's schemes were accompanied by a lot of interjections and running about the apartment to update me on her progress.

This silence, while enjoyable, was also almost uncomfortable in its novelty.

Finally, when the last dish was clean, I set it down and went about the apartment in search of Sharp.

"Sharp? Sharp, where are you?"

I found her in the bedroom, lying across the bed with her head in her arms, shaking slightly. I paused; oh, God.

"Sharp," I said, and my voice was softer now. "Gwendolyn, what's wrong?"

But she just shook her head, motioning for me to go away; I sat down on the bed near her and lightly rubbed her hair.

"Sharp, please don't cry."

She lifted her head slightly, regarding me with wet, red-rimmed eyes.

"I…I can't do anything right," she said—and then out her head back in her arms and sobbed. I, seeing no other option, coaxed her head onto my lap and let her cry into my pants, one hand stroking her hair.

"Sharp, c'mon. You know that's not true."

(The little snippet was prone to vast exaggeration.)

She shook her head.

"N-no…it is…Bernard, I…I wanted so _badly_ for it to go well, and…and it was just awful!"

I considered, for a moment, agreeing with her wholeheartedly—a moment's reflection, however, told me now was not the time.

"Sharp, it's just Elmer. You know he's not a sparkling conversationalist. He was too awe of Miss Gwendolyn, miss, to really talk to her."

She nodded.

"I-I know…but…Bernard, I wanred so _badly_ to make friends with him, and I feel like it just blew up in my face…and I tried so _hard_!"

"I know you did," I said, wishing she would stop. Sharp crying always produced a very uncomfortable tightening sensation in my chest. "Sharp…Gwen…it's not your fault. It's just Elmer. Please don't cry."

She lifted her head and looked up at me, a weak little smile on her face.

"Th-thanks, Bernard. I love you."

"I know you do, Sharp."

Gwendolyn sniffed and then got on her knees, slipping her arms around my neck and kissing me damply on the cheek. I felt my arms, of their own accord, winding around her back and pulling her closer.

"You—you do a lot right, Gwendolyn," I found myself telling her. "Believe me."

She smiled against my neck.

"Thanks, Bernard."

"No problem, Sharp."

And then, quietly said into her hair:

"I love you."

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Fifteen minutes later, Sharp was exhibiting her incredible ability to "bounce back," as the phrase went, and was already planning her next mode of attack.

"Alright, so clearly dinner isn't the way to do it—it's too formal, too self-conscious. I need to find a way to engage Elmer without his being aware of it. You follow me, Bernard?"

I rolled my eyes without looking up from my book.

"Sharp, I'm reading."

"Not anymore you're not. This is important, Bernard. It's strategy. Now, the way I see it, there are three different ways of going about this…"

This went on for a good half hour; as I have said, Gwendolyn Sharp was never the sort to know when to gracefully throw in the towel.


End file.
